


Contingency Plans

by myhomeistheshire



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, pre-dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 10:08:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13187874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhomeistheshire/pseuds/myhomeistheshire
Summary: AU where Amy transfers to Major Crimes to work with the Vulture. She's doing great. (She isn't.)





	Contingency Plans

Amy Santiago has always known about control.

 

School, college, police work - none of it has surprised her. She had them planned out years in advance; arranged contingency plans for her contingency plans. She hates surprises, but she’s always ready for them. Until this year. Until  _ something _ changed, and she doesn’t know what it is, except that something inside her feels ready to break.

 

She hasn’t spoken to Jake since the Christmas Party Debacle of 2016. She can’t understand why she can’t just forgive him, but the simple fact is that she can’t, and that’s that. She’s moved to Major Crimes, and she loves it (she  _ does _ ), and her life plan is filling itself out nicely. She’s happy. She’s on track. She’s in control.

 

(This is what she tells herself, every night.)

 

January comes and goes, and with February comes a restlessness she isn’t accustomed to. She misses being in the field, misses  _ doing _ things. She’s begun to resent paperwork, a fact that makes her a little unsure of who she is anymore. And one day,  _ during work hours _ , she finds herself scrolling facebook on her computer. It’s all senseless and boring and she almost closes out of the browser when a selfie pops up - Jake and Gina at the precinct, with Charles photobombing in the background. It’s awkward and overly cheerful and yet relaxed, in a way that sends a pang through her chest.

“Slacking off on the job, huh Santiago?” A voice drawls from behind her, and Amy slams her fingers on the mouse in a panic, x-ing out of the browser. The Vulture spins her chair around so she’s facing him, and he has that disgusting look that he gets on his face when he knows he’s just won something.

“I am  _ so _ sorry, sir.” Amy blurts out, clenching her hands together. “It was a one-time thing, I swear. I’ll  _ never _ do it again.”

“Damn right you won’t.” The Vulture swaggers a little closer to her, just enough that it’s uncomfortable and he  _ revels _ in it. “Or else I’ll get you sent back the way your captain came -  _ public affairs, _ Santiago, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” Amy replies, every bit the teacher’s pet, but when he spins around and traipses away, she gives an overexaggerated shudder and glares his way. “Stupid, moronic,  _ imbecile _ .” She mutters vehemently, before turning back to her paperwork with a new air of aggression. She  _ will _ get through these, damn it, and she’ll keep working towards her five-year plan which she’s  _ so close _ to achieving. All it’ll take is putting up with the Vulture for a little while longer. As soon as she has a real place on the squad he won’t be her superior anymore, and she won’t have to deal with him second-guessing her every move. It’ll be fine. It’ll be great.

 

She reconsiders her priorities the next day when she’s walking down into the subway station and she’s thrown up four times this morning and she’s going to be  _ late _ , and then the man two lines down from her pulls a gun and starts shooting.

 

She doesn’t know what’s happening, except that people are screaming and shots are being fired and she doesn’t have her  _ gun _ because she’s not a freaking detective anymore. She still shouts “NYPD, don’t move!” from behind the pillar that’s the only thing between her and the bullets; peers around and sees the shooter looking around for the voice.

She tries again. “Put down the gun or I’ll shoot!” And for a second, miraculously, it works. And then she doesn’t step out, and she doesn’t shoot, and the man fires another shot in the crowd before disappearing up the stairs.

 

Everything in her body is screaming at her, a constant outpour of  _ you let this happen _ as she looks at the three - four - human bodies lying on the ground with bullet holes in their chests, necks, stomachs. And she looks to see that people are going to their aid, and then without another heartbeat to stop her she’s pounding up the stairs, eyes trained on the spot that the shooter’s brown laced shoes disappeared from.

 

She emerges into the clouded sky and there’s rain pattering onto her face and her glasses because she was shaking too much from the puking this morning to put in her contacts, and it’s obstructing her vision a little more each second, but she doesn’t have any time to waste. She spots a flash of dark blue, the same as the shooter’s coat, and she’s off - pounding feet into the pavement, heart beating faster, adrenaline thrumming through her veins. She feels everything in her racing, yet at the same time she’s calmer than she’s been in months. There’s a problem. She’s going to fix it.

 

(She doesn’t care that she doesn’t have a gun, or a vest, or that backup probably won’t even know where to find her when it comes. She needs to do this, so she does.)

 

She catches up with him five blocks later, when he ducks into an alley off of 16th. She peers around the corner and waits until he hunches over, hands on his knees, gun tucked into his third and fourth fingers.

 

She takes a deep breath, and she runs, and she tackles him to the ground.

 

It’s a frantic brawl, but he drops the gun when she breaks his ring finger, and she kicks it away with all the vigour of her martial arts days. He manages to get a quick swing at her face, and Amy feels a blind rush of heat, and then pain, and then she has him on the ground with his hands twisted behind his back and his face crushed into the Manhattan concrete. She grabs her handcuffs, and pulls him to his feet, and calls the precinct.

 

She thinks that maybe, with this, she’ll get some recognition - but it’s the Vulture who pulls up and throws the shooter in the backseat, who takes the gun (already carefully labelled and in an evidence bag that Amy keeps in her coat pocket), and says “thanks for the score” before driving away. She’s left with empty hands and a worse day than she started with, and a nose that’s still very broken. So she takes a cab to the hospital, and calls the precinct to explain her absence, and waits for nine hours to be admitted into the ER.

By the time her nose is set and the doctor tells her she can go, Amy has a full black eye and hair that smells like way too much like vomit. She wants to throw up more, or cry, but instead she waits at the bus stop and focuses on making it through the ride home without falling over.

  
  


It’s not until she’s home and has showered, brushed and flossed her teeth, combed her hair, and settled under her blankets that Amy looks over at the clock and realizes the date - February 14th. 11:48, her clock reads, and Valentine’s day has come and gone without her noticing. She ignores the twinge in her chest, and reaches over to switch her lamp off. She snuggles into the mattress, folding her hands over her stomach, and stares up at the ceiling. 2017 is already speeding past; yesterday it was New Year’s and tomorrow it’ll be summer, with the heat weaving through the streets and the blissful relief when the cool night hits, and the stars come out, and nothing is calm but some things finally make sense. Amy thinks of summers at home, sneaking her window open to climb on the roof and just look up. She stares at the ceiling and thinks of the stars and the skyline, and when she falls asleep she doesn’t notice.

 

The next morning, she calls Jake.

 

“Yello,” he answers, and she can tell he didn’t check his caller ID because when she says “hey” in a tired, quiet voice, he stops. She hears the brief inhale before his trying-to-be-chill voice comes back onto the line.

“Santiago, my friend-turned-traitor.” He says, but there’s a small hint of joking in there that means he isn’t completely serious. “Let me guess: you finally realized that you’re a terrible detective and you need my help solving a super-secret case.”

“Ha, ha.” Amy replies, rolling her eyes. “No, I just wanted to -” she stops. She normally plans out her phone conversations, with every possible combination of questions and answers and scenarios. But she didn’t this time, and she’s stuck.

 

She just tells the truth.

 

“Yesterday I tackled a guy who shot four people,” she says in a rush. “And it was the first time I’d done any real police work since I transferred, and it was just - I felt like I actually knew what I was doing, for once. And I realized you were right, at Christmas. Everything you said, about me being selfish and blind and not knowing what I wanted - it was all right.”

Jake snorts into the phone. “I never thought I’d see the day: Amy Santiago, admitting that I, Jake Peralta, am right. Is this a hoax? Can you say that again so I can record it?”

Amy sighs, and Jake’s voice softens. “Stay at your house, okay?” He says, and she frowns a little, confused. “I’m coming over.”

 

She waits, and makes herself a bagel, and twenty three minutes later her doorbell rings. 

She opens it, and Jake is there, and she's so relieved to see him that it takes her a full twenty seconds to realize he's glaring at her. “What?” She asks, unexpectedly self conscious. 

“Amy Santiago,” Jake says sternly, “did you actually tackle an armed man who had just shot people with nothing but rage and your grandma flats?”

“Hey!” Amy replies, affronted. “My shoes are stylish.”

“Y’know, it's sweet that you think that. And I'm gonna take that as a  _ yes _ , so a) you're an idiot and b) will you marry me?”

Amy rolls her eyes, but she opens the door just a little bit more, and he makes his way into her living room.

“Seriously, Ames,” he'll say later, after too many drinks on her back porch, “don't go too diehard on me, okay? I'd miss you if you got shot by some subway psycho.” He takes another long sip of his beer, and Amy watches him, highlighted against the Brooklyn lights, goosebumps trailing across his skin from the February air. “But I mean, if that  _ does  _ happen I'd write a killer eulogy -”

Amy kisses him. And, after a moment, he kisses her back. 

 

(Two days later, she'll dial her #2 speed dial and ask Holt what she would have to do to transfer back. Gina will take too many selfies with Amy's mangled face - #bondsquad #yourheroes - and Charles will casually drop off her favorite Puerto Rican dish that tastes almost better than her abuela’s; Terry will bring over a scrapbook of the twins and Rosa will say ‘hey nerd, glad you're back. there's too much paperwork in this job’. Hitchcock and Scully won't even notice she was gone.)

(Jake won't react, because he's known longer than she has that she'd be coming back. What he will do is kiss her in the break room, and give her coffee, and play the cell phone-recorded YouTube video of her running after the shooter on repeat in the conference room. And she'll roll her eyes like she always does, but she'll smile too. And at the end of her first day, she'll throw plans out the window and kiss him right there, in front of everyone. She still likes control. But she might need it a little less now.) 


End file.
